


even less to live for

by AroJade (AlleyCatSunflower)



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Creepy, Drama, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Tragedy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2020-03-13 05:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleyCatSunflower/pseuds/AroJade
Summary: Largo had been the one to mediate her battle, and perhaps that was for the best. Had Sync been there instead, he might have stopped the fight out of fear for her life before that even happened, and destroyed all her trust in him. She had been ready to die, and he simply hadn't played a large enough part in her life to convince her to live.Thatwas what truly hurt. Sync had always thought it was useless to make friends, knowing the world would tear them all away from him anyway. He hadn't anticipated that what would sting so much more than losing someone he let himself care about was thinking of what could have been between them, and never having shared any memories on which he could look back.





	even less to live for

_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_   
_Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,_   
_In the sepulchre there by the sea,_   
_In her tomb by the sounding sea._

She was sleeping; that was all. Her eyes were closed peacefully, her hair brushed much more neatly than it had ever been before. She still wore the clothing she had been wearing earlier that day—black and pink and white—now with splashes of crimson here and there. It was odd to think that just that morning, she had awakened and arranged that headdress on her head herself. Her heart had still been beating then, her chest yet rising and falling with every breath.

Sync smiled bitterly at the thought and traced her jaw, half-expecting her to shy away from his touch, but she lay still and silent as the shadows around them.

His smile became a grimace as he inhaled sharply in the beginnings of a sob. It was strange where his mind drew its limits. It didn't matter that she lay on a slab in the cathedral mortuary, or that her own blood stained her clothes, or that she had been reported to have lost her duel. It mattered only that she did not react to his caress, one he had never bestowed to her in life.

Sync rose, glaring down at her corpse with his fists clenched. He had been angry for as long as he could remember, so much so that anything different was strange. Now, though, he was  _furious_ —at the world, at himself, at her. Why had she treated him like a human being, instead of a pawn like all the others? If she had just kept her mouth shut—if she had just listened to his rejections—if she had just—

"He was a replica!" he shouted at her body, voice ringing through the chilly darkness, and wished she would flinch at the volume. "He was only a replica, and you  _died_  for him! You threw your life away for his sake—but I'm a replica, too! I'm a replica of the Fon Master, your Fon Master—" His voice cracked abruptly into silence, and he touched a hand clumsily to his face: it came away wet with tears.

Sync heaved a great, shuddering sigh, and removed his mask.

He had worn it for as long as he could remember, but always willingly. Protecting her from the truth was the only thing he could do for her. He gave a short, harsh, broken laugh, and threw his mask to the floor with a clatter. The God-Generals had told him to keep his true identity concealed from her, but they could not have known that telling him to keep his distance from her was just as brutal as any of the other numerous cruelties the world had inflicted upon him.

Perhaps, if he had just allowed himself to  _feel_ —

"Sync?"

That was Largo's voice. Sync quieted his breathing abruptly, but refused to turn around to face him. Largo had been the one to mediate her battle, and perhaps that was for the best. Had Sync been there instead, he might have stopped the fight out of fear for her life before that even happened, and destroyed all her trust in him. She had been ready to die, and he simply hadn't played a large enough part in her life to convince her to live.

 _That_  was what truly hurt. Sync had always thought it was useless to make friends, knowing the world would tear them all away from him anyway. He hadn't anticipated that what would sting so much more than losing someone he let himself care about was thinking of what could have been between them, and never having shared any memories on which he could look back.

"It's three o'clock in the morning. Get some rest," said Largo impassively, then turned and walked away.

One more tear slipped down Sync's cheek, and he brushed it away, sniffling, annoyed with himself. He tried to add her death to the expansive list of reasons he hated the world, but found that he was no longer angry. He had expended all his wrath through explaining to her, once and for all, the lie that she had been told for two whole years. Now, he was just… empty. She had left a gaping hole in his chest, one he had never known she had filled.

He noticed, for the first time, a golden tuning-fork pendant hanging around her neck, glimmering in the dim light. Anger flashed like lightning one final time through the void that was now his heart, and he yanked it from around her neck forcefully, snapping the string that held it there. It was a reminder of her time with Ion, and as such, it should have died with him.

Sync clenched it in his fist shakily. It was deathly cold at first, but quickly warmed to his touch, and his rage evaporated as quickly as it had seized him. Opening his hand and staring at the necklace, he closed his eyes after a short pause and tied it around his own neck. Now, it had become a memento of  _her_ , and not the replica she had so idolized.

Sync slipped the warm pendant beneath his shirt and closed his eyes as if in prayer. There was nothing awaiting them beyond the abyss of death, no god listening to his thoughts, and the idea was strangely comforting. Sync was sure that even had she succeeded in avenging her beloved Fon Master, she would have killed herself afterwards. After Sync's own duties were complete and the Score was abolished, he would find a way to do the same. Eternal sleep, never having to wake to a world full of sin and savagery, was his most coveted desire. Perhaps that was their greatest similarity.

 _Sleep_. Sync suppressed a yawn; Largo had given his warning for a reason, though Sync doubted he would get much rest tonight either. She marked the first casualty among the God-Generals, and it had given the rest of them a sense of mortality for the first time. Even the most mature among them had maintained an arrogant sense of invincibility, at which Sync had always scoffed.

He wavered a little out of exhaustion, pressing the pendant against his chest through his shirt, and entertained for a moment the idea of an afterlife in the shape of the morgue around him. Did her spirit linger on in the darkness and silence? Did she wait for him, sitting in the shadows, or did she chase blindly after Ion even there?

Sighing heavily, knowing the answer already, Sync sat next to her on the slab, looking down at her with softness more characteristic of the seventh replica whom she had so adored than himself."Arietta," he whispered, as though to gently awaken her, but she didn't stir. Leaning down on an impulse, Sync pressed a cautious kiss to her forehead.

It wasn't enough; it would never be enough. He imagined life returning to her in glowing vivacity through some miracle, and trailed his lips tremulously down to hers after a slight hesitation—a hollow echo of a fairytale kiss.

So  _this_ was what love felt like. Cold and lifeless.

Sync leaned his forehead against hers in frustration, throat burning with unspilled tears, and sat up. He knew he should go up to his room, but if icy stone was a good enough bed for her, it was good enough for him. Swinging his legs up onto the table, he rearranged himself carefully into horizontality, almost as though avoiding disturbing her.

Resting an exhausted head next to hers, chin barely touching her shoulder, his breath stirred her hair, granting the illusion of life. He slid his gloved hand along her slender waist, tracing the gashes in her clothes and skin with slow and deliberate fingers, and wondered whether this might have been something more to live for had he done it before her death. Now, it was too late.

"Good night, Arietta," he sighed, closing his eyes in defeat.

 _Good night, Sync,_ her voice murmured in his head, the ghost of her last words to him, and he heard no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Epigraph from Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee".


End file.
